The Slowly Shifting Sands
by Julius Peabody
Summary: The Prince and Farah right after SoT. A new adventure begins in India. The sands are released again, but is it exactly deja vu?Will this new adventure make Farah remember? Will everything end the same in the end?
1. Close In the Desert Night

Disclaimer: Prince of Persia is not my idea, neither is Farah or the Dagger of Time… All that I claim is mine is the plot, and some additional character's that I made up…

Note: Many people spell Farah's word, cakolukia with a k, but I am spelling it with a c because that is the way I spelt it after I first heard it. If any of you are crazed enough for this to really bother you, don't worry because I don't say it often.

He had been unable to stop the approaching war. The war took place, like it had before he had changed time. But it did not turn out the way it had been before. The victory was not easy, and Farah was not taken as a slave, in fact, the war was still going on now. It was night, and relatively peaceful, though death and destruction ran rampant that day. The Prince lay in his tent, his head full of thought, restless from anxiety and the stifling heat.

He was thinking of Farah of course, he always did now. He was in India, and he could, if he wanted to, go and see her. He could see the glimmer of her lamp in her palace window, though it was far and distant, resembling a flickering golden star. He loved her. He loved her but he could not tell her. Pain throbbed in his chest because of this, the worst kind of pain he had ever experienced. Anyone else who had an unrequited love had more of a chance of revealing it than he did, for she did not remember anything and without remembering it there would be no chance. And the war was going on, they were enemies.

But they were enemies before, she was his slave, and still they had grown to love each other in the end. That was because of the dagger. That was because of the mistake he had made. The one mistake, though tragic, he was almost glad he made. Though now he could never be with her again, and he would have this horrible longing that he could never fill, he was happier to have experienced it than to not have. Another pain of heartache throbbed in his chest. He began to reconsider his thought. Perhaps it would be better for this never to have happened….

No. He loved her. He remembered what they had done together, their moments of intimacy despite the circumstances, his thoughts of marrying her, the heart-wrenching sight of her sacrificing her life for this all to be over, the dagger wet with her blood, and the peaceful way she landed after she had willingly fallen to her death.

The fact that she did not remember not only made it impossible for him to love her again, but made it all the more painful. When he had told her his story, she was intrigued, her beautiful eyes wide, hanging on to his every word. But then her reaction, her face when he knew for sure that she had forgotten, stuck like a pike in his heart, lodged so deep that it would be there forever, a scar never forgotten.

Something stirred in the night. Probably a soldier shifting in his sleep, dreaming of home, of Persia and all of the family and friends that would meet him…



"Farah." Her father's voice echoed in the darkness of the room, startling her while she was writing. His voice had not disturbed her from the poem she was composing, from delicately placing words on the yellowed page. She was not concentrating on that at all. She was thinking of that Prince again, the one from Persia, who she knew was sleeping not far away while he waited for the morning when he would fight again…

Fight. He would fight against her own people, and she should hate him for that, but instead she ignored this, while a nagging voice in the back of her head told her to hate him. But she could not. Somehow she believed that he was not evil like that, that he would not kill her people if he had a choice. And she was intrigued by him. He had told her his story, killed the vizier, who he has somehow known was treacherous, and then left her the dagger before sliding down a tree and running off.

Who was he? She wanted to know. There was something definitely intriguing about him, and his story, and how he had gotten the dagger in the first place.

But he could be a madman. He could have made up this story, stolen the dagger and killed the vizier, who coincidentally was evil. Then he would be dangerous.

But he knew the word…

Cakolukia… Her mother's word. Her mother who had been dead for a while now, and thinking of her and that word made her heart ache. How had he known it? She had to have told him. She had not told anyone else, and no one knew about it, not even her father. Only Farah and her mother, who was dead now, buried in the family tombs, knew that word, and he could not have heard it from her.

So Farah had to have told him….

No. She would have remembered.

But if he turned back time in the end then she wouldn't have…

But why did he remember?

Because she died and he did not.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Perhaps Cakolukia was a Persian name or something. He had told her to call him that. Maybe her mother had gotten the word from a name, and it wasn't so secret after all….

No. Why was she making up outlandish coincidences when they just didn't fit?

Because his story is impossible….

And she could not stop thinking of him. Not just of what this all meant, but of him. She remembered his face vividly, though she had seen him only once. That face seemed to haunt her, to fill her with empty longing…

But how could she feel like that to him? She did not know him and he was an enemy, a Persian waging war against her father and his kingdom. But he did not seem like an enemy.

"Farah!" Her father's voice repeated again.

She looked up at him, dazed, still somewhat absorbed in her thoughts. She wondered why he was here, in her room. He never came here, he always sent someone to summon her to him.

"Yes father?" She said politely, in that young, obedient tone she used with him.

"I have something to tell you."

Her eyes watched him, waiting.

"You are going to be married."


	2. Anouncements and War

Disclaimer: Prince of Persia is not my idea, neither is Farah or the Dagger of Time… All that I claim is mine is the plot, and some additional character's that I made up…

Farah's heart stopped beating for a second. Her first urge was to scream out to her father, ask him what he had really said, because she could not believe that he had said that. But he had, and she knew it. She breathed deeply, and her heart beat again, faster than before to make up for its delay. She was shaking and was sure that her father would notice her like this and scold her for her reaction. She had to seem calm and composed, as if this was ordinary news to her. She attempted to write again, but her hand was still shaking furiously and black globs of ink fell onto the yellowed page, smudging her distracted attempt at a poem.

She did not want to be married. She could not, not now, not with the mystery of the Persian prince haunting her. She felt bound to him and if she married it would be a betrayal to him.

But he did not care for her. Not like that. He had charmed her with his story and left her the dagger to be kind and because it did not belong to him, but he did not think of her nightly like she thought of him. Sometimes, he would think of her in passing but he would not care either way about her, only remembering that day.

But yet he had told her his story and though she believed it to be just that at first, she was having second thoughts. What if it were true? What if?

But it did not matter now, the mystery would go unsolved. She was going to be married.

She did not love the Prince, she could not, she did not know him, but yet it felt like betrayal to do this.

She told herself she did not love him, and she logically could not, but what was this lingering feeling when she thought about him, the need to solve his mystery that was not born entirely out of intrigue?

Nothing about this made sense logically.

If she had been told she was to be married and she had never met the Prince, she would have been indignant; she would have resisted it but perhaps might lighten up if the man was kind enough. But now she knew that for some reason she could not really be entirely happy.

She told herself it was not love. It was intrigue, combined with her own reluctance to do this.

"When?" she said, concentrating on not letting her father know how she was taking all of this.

"When?" Her father laughed in the doorway. "When is not usually the first question brides-to-be ask," he chuckled.

He found this amusing.

"As soon as possible, in ten days, if all goes well. He needs to be back to work soon. He is a soldier, and he needs to get back to work since… war is on." He chose his words carefully, as if it pained him to remember the Persian army was sleeping a few miles away from the city walls, resting after a day of warfare. They had invaded us and he had not foreseen it. It bothered him that he realized their threat too late.

"His name is Amar and he is an excellent soldier, the son of one of the best. He will come tomorrow and meet you, and then within nine days, you will marry."

Farah wondered why her father and Amar, rather, Amar's father, since she doubted Amar himself had much say in the matter, would decide in the middle of a war to marry them. But this thought was tucked away for her to think on later.

"I was going to tell you tomorrow, her father continued, "But I thought I would see if you were awake and tell you now. Come to think of it, it is too late for you to be up, you should sleep."

"Yes father," she said daintily, hiding her true outrage at his behavior. He was treating her like a child, telling her when to sleep, but she wasn't a child, she can't be if he was marrying her off like this.

Her father closed the door softly behind him. Farah thought of his command and considered staying awake to spite him, though he would never know that she had. Sighing, she considered it useless, and since she had nothing better to do, she went to sleep.



The Prince woke up the next morning, not quite aware that he had ever fallen asleep, but suddenly aware of the dawn, and the soft calling of birds flying across the salmon pink sky. He rose from the gathering of cushions and sheets that he called his bed and stretched in the early morning light. He had his own tent, though it was smaller than his father's, and when he looked around it this morning he was filled with a deep feeling of loneliness. He wondered how long it had been since it all happened. It had never happened of course, the whole long adventure of returning the sands, but every morning he seemed to have forgotten it. Every morning he had to undergo the painful process of reminding himself that it really did not happen, that he had turned back time and it was all over.

But it felt so real to him, and it had been, or had it never been?

At night, in his dreams, he lived it again, snippets of what had happened passing through his mind, feeling the pain of the wounds from the Sand Monsters, the battle with his father, and that night in the Baths…

But he would not think of that, as heavenly as it was to remember, it was horrible as well.

But it had to have happened! It wasn't possible. How could she forget all of that? It was real; it could not have been forgotten! How could he have remembered and she had forgotten?

It was real. It had happened. She knew it did. He would go to see her, and tell her everything again and then…

"Prince…"

"Farah!" He turned around quickly, he thought he heard her laughing….

But she wasn't there.

It had never happened. He had turned back time and she did not remember.

He shivered, having finally convinced himself that it had not happened, as he did every morning.

The sooner we end this war, the better, he thought, then I can leave here and forget this whole thing.

But could he forget? He doubted it but it was the only chance he had left.

He pulled back the opening of the tent and looked outside. Though it was only dawn, the soldiers were already awake and moving around, preparing for their missions. There was no doubt that there would be some fight today. The Persians were advancing closer and closer to the city gates, and the Maharajah would definitely not stand for that. The soldiers bustled about, preparing weapons, gathering water for a quick wash before they would go off and work, practicing for battles or perhaps gathering to speak strategy or stage a battle. They stopped along the way now, speaking to each other and smiling, probably speaking about their enthusiasm for the war and their hatred for the enemy. They were ignorant, all of them, all uneducated commoners who said whatever the leaders told them to say, and didn't even think of anything else. Of course there were some educated people, nobles who could afford an education, but they were ignorant now too, biased against the people who were now their enemy, depicting them as horrible, immoral people so it could be easier for them to shove a sword through them. But they were all wrong and horribly ignorant. How could they say that? They did not even know them. They were not like that. She was not like that.

No...

He winced and jumped back, pulling the tent opening closed.

He could not think about her. He could not. Thinking of this was too distracting for him now, when he should be battling. This was his first war that his father had brought him along for, and it should be something exciting. This was taking all of the excitement out of it.

But this was not his first war because he had lived this all before, and had killed more in more gruesome ways than he would throughout this battle. But that had not happened. The timeline changed. It had not happened. He erased it.

He walked to the opposite end of the tent, where a mirror and a basin of water had been set for him to wash. He splashed water in his face to chase away his thoughts and to wake himself up. He gazed at his tired face in the mirror and sighed.

"Son!"

The Prince looked into the mirror and saw his father through it, standing behind him in the entranceway of the tent.

"Good morning Father," he mumbled, wiping his face with a towel.

"Good morning," his father exclaimed, "Though it doesn't seem like a good one to you." He laughed. "You look so sullen, like a little boy who lost in a game of tag! Tell me, what's bothering you?"

"Nothing Father."

"Nonsense! Something is. The entire time we were here you seemed out of sorts." He laughed. "Have you left behind a lovely woman in Babylon?"

"No," The Prince said, not looking at his father, "I haven't. Perhaps…" His thoughts wandered as he decided if and how he should say what he wanted to say.

"Perhaps?" His father said lightheartedly.

"Perhaps it is seeing the horrors of war. It seems to have sobered me."

His father's face turned graver, and his tone more serious. "Yes son. That I could understand. War is quite sobering…"


	3. A Siege

Disclaimer: I do not own PoP. This is the last chapter I am saying this because it is getting VERY annoying!

Three months had passed. The Prince walked quietly through the camp. Night had fallen and soldiers were making their way back to their tents and settling in for the night. The day had been without a battle, but it had been hectic, since a siege was being planned. One month ago the Maharajah died and a new one had taken his place. The Persians took this opportunity to attack, though they still had to be careful since the new Maharajah was a skilled military man. Strategies had been planned for weeks now, but this morning had been especially hectic; the siege was planned for tomorrow. Everyone was tired and was happy to be headed for bed, but the Prince had been summoned by his father and could not rest quite yet.

The Maharajah was dead, the Prince thought as he walked through the desert sand, and he had no living sons. He had had two of them once, but they had died in battle. All that he had left was Farah. Then where had the new one come from?

She had to have married.

He had thought about this many times since he had learned of this new Maharajah, but every time he thought on it again it still shocked him.

Farah had married.

He could not believe it. She was married and once before he had thought of marrying her…

No. Not once before. It had been erased.

But he had thought it and he would have thought the same again if it was possible for his thoughts to have a purpose now.

He sighed. It did not matter. That was the way it should be. When he came home he would find a woman and marry her. She would become queen once he ruled Persia and everything would be fine.

But would it?

He had reached his father's tent and pulled back the entrance to it.

"Father?"

The tent was lit by several small oil lamps which flickered from the breeze that wafted inside. His father sat with his back to the doorway, rigid, as if in deep thought. His armor lay on a chair, as well as his weapons. The man looked older without them, not all the formidable man he appeared in battle.

"Yes son, I am here."

He turned around to face the Prince, his face grave and aged.

"You called me?" the Prince said timidly, unnerved by how elderly his father looked in the dim, flickering lights.

"Yes. It is about the siege."

The Prince nodded, though a knot formed in his stomach at the mention of the siege. He was not looking forward to this. Something inside of him resisted it.

"I did not mention this when speaking to the troops today, but there will be two groups in the siege, one that will attack, and another to infiltrate. Only my closest advisors know about this, and now you."

The Prince looked at him expectantly, knowing that he would have something to do with this.

"I," the king continued, "Will be leading the men into battle, the first group, and you will lead the second—"

"To infiltrate," the Prince interrupted.

"Yes," the king said, a small smile creeping across his face.

"And what will I be infiltrating?"

"The Maharajah's palace."

His heart quickened. "Wouldn't he be leading his own troops against ours?"

"It is supposed to be a surprise siege," the king explained, so he might be there with his advisors. If not, then take the palace from the inside."

"By force?"

"Of course." The King looked at him, slightly, surprised.

"But if the Maharajah is not there, then all that would be left is maids and servants." His throat quivered. He would not mention Farah.

But his father mentioned her for him. "And his wife," the king said. "You don't have to kill them, just capture them. But make sure you take his treasure. He inherited quite the treasure vault."

Capture the maids. And Farah. Capturing her might be the only way being with her could be possible…

No. He couldn't do that to her.

But he couldn't disobey his father….

He did not know what to do.

"There seems to be many things in the Maharajah's treasure vault, if the legends are true," the king said, looking at his son. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to bring them back to Persia?"

"Yes, it would," he said tentatively. It was all happening again, almost as if fate did not want him to erase his mistake. But this time, if he did get the dagger, he would not open the sands.

"What is wrong, son? You seem reluctant for this. Most princes strive for their father's to give them a responsibility like this."

"I'm fine father, just tired and…"

"And?"

"A little nervous."

The king laughed. "No need to be nervous," he said, placing his hand on the Prince's shoulder, "You are skilled enough for this. I have faith in you."

The Prince nodded. "Who is coming with me on the infiltration?"

"A few of the best men, my most trusted soldiers. Don't worry, they are very capable. You will give the orders though. Arash, one of my advisors, will be there to advise you if you need help. It shouldn't take long though, and it would be easy enough for you."

"Alright. Where should I meet?"

"Join the siege like you would without this. Arash will come and find you with the men. Don't tell anyone of this, it would cause a commotion."

"Yes, I know."

"Good. Now you can sleep, I can see that you are very tired." He smiled. "Don't worry, you will do fine. I have confidence in you."

"Thank You Father." He smiled feebly and left the tent.

His head was swimming. He would have to do this; there was no way out of it. He would have to try and succeed, and if he did…

If he did nothing will happen. It would be the same as before, only this time he will not open the sands.

But he could not do that to Farah.

But he had no choice….


	4. It Begins

Disclaimer: I don't own PoP. I know I said that I wasn't going to say this again but I lied. I thought it would be better to be safe than sorry with these

Disclaimer things.

The sand shifted under the horse's feet as The Prince marched forward into battle. The sun fell into his eyes as he marched and he brought his hands up to shield his eyes. His father marched beside him as well as his father's best men. These were the men that would help him in his infiltration. He watched them out of the corner of his eyes. They seemed so calm, so unfazed by the battle that lay before them or the secret plan they were about to carry out. He wished he was as calm as they were; his own heart beat rapidly in his chest, thumping hard against his ribs. But then again, they were experienced with war. Perhaps they had ceased to think of it as killing. They were only just doing their job. Yes, the Prince thought, that was how they remained so calm now and avoided dreams of guilt at night.

Farah was in that palace. The palace he was to infiltrate was Farah's home and he would have to capture her. He had no choice but to follow his father's orders…

But if he did it then he could see her again and she could be his.

No…

He had fought this battle with himself many times now. Though he had just heard of his part in the plan the night before, he had thought on it many times since then, staying up in the night debating what to do.

There actually was no reason for debate. He could not avoid doing this.

But he wanted to have an opinion on it. He wanted to know what exactly he wanted.

He wanted her…

But he could not have her.

Unless he captured her.

But he could not do that to her…

He cursed under his breath. The repetition in his head was irritating. He would just do what he was told to do. Everything would play out then.

But yet he wanted to know what he thought about this…

He sighed and forced himself to forget this.

He couldn't really but he forced it into the back of his mind.

"Don't be nervous," a voice said to his right. He turned and saw Arash, who was mounted on his horse that was standing right beside him. "Your father told me you were. It will be easy and I have seen you in battle. You are very skilled," He paused for a moment a thoughtful smile of his face. "Though it seems that you have more experience in this than a few months of battle could have given you. You're a natural." He clapped his hand on his back in support and left to stand by the King.

They thought he was a natural; that he knew how to fight so well with barely any experience. But he had experience.

No. He didn't. He changed the timeline. It didn't happen.

But then why did he have the experience? Why did he remember it all? It had to have happened!

But technically it didn't.

Did it or did it not happen?

He growled to himself in irritation of his confusion, holding his head in anger. He hated this uncertainty. Why did this have to happen to him?

But his anger stopped as he saw the palace over the horizon, tall and foreboding in the distance.

"Get ready Prince," a soft voice whispered behind him. He turned. It was Arash. "I am going to be advising you through this," he said smiling. "Your father will give us the signal and then we will sneak around the back of our siege and infiltrate the castle."

"I don't want anyone hurt unless necessary," The Prince said suddenly, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "And if anyone finds the Maharajah's wife," he said more forcefully, "Bring her to me."

Arash smiled. "Yes your majesty. We will be sure to leave the best prize for you." With that he rode away.

The Prince was suddenly disgusted with himself.

A prize. That was all Farah was. A medal of honor, to boast with, to show that yes, he did infiltrate the Maharajah's palace, and he had come back with the best treasure it held.

He suddenly felt ill.

But now was no time to be ill.

The army marched on, the men oblivious to the infiltration still knew that this would be a decisive battle, and the tension mounted.

"Fight well, soldiers," his father announced regally to all. "This war has gone on long enough."

It was much shorter last time, the Prince reflected, and then cursed himself for doing so. There was no last time.

There was no last time.

No experience.

Nothing happened with Farah.

Perhaps it was part of his curse for opening the sands that he had to remember things that didn't happen.

But he never opened the sands….

He cursed loudly again, aloud, and several heads turned in his direction but did not say anything. But there looks were enough. They thought him mad.

They were probably right.

The signal.

Out of nowhere it came and the Prince followed Arash into battle, attacking those who came in his way, not yet following the plan. But soon Arash led him and the men away from the battle and once far enough away he moved aside and allowed the Prince to lead. Arash nodded at him in assurance. The Prince avoided his eyes but continued to lead the men.

"Do not kill or injure unless necessary," he said calmly, "Only take the women as slaves unless they provoke you."

"And if you find the Maharajah's wife, give her to the Prince," Arash interjected, smiling knowingly at him.

The Prince nodded feebly, his insides turning to jelly out of nervousness, and his head swimming from disgust at himself. With these feelings churning inside of him, the Prince began the barrage on the palace.


	5. They Are Here

The air around her was thick with mist and perfumes, making every breath feel as if it was full of passion. She breathed it deeply in her nose, wishing that she could sit her forever in her baths, breathing in this air, never having to see anyone else, especially her husband who called himself Maharajah.

Yes, called himself. He was Maharajah now. As much as Farah had always disliked her father, there still was a bruise left on her heart from his death. Perhaps it was because through it all she truly did love him as a father, despite all of the things he had done. No. It was probably because living with her father was better than living with this man.

She did not tell Amar that she despised him. She did not tell him that she hated him for his unbearable arrogance, for his cold-heart, for his horrible treatment of everyone around him. She did not tell him that she hated how she sat in his throne was if he was worth worshiping, how she hated waking up some mornings beside him, how she hated the condescending looks he gave her when he explained things, how she wanted to murder him in his sleep the night he broke her bow in half, claiming 'good wives' didn't need such things.

No. Farah acted as the good wife for him, answering primly with yes my love's, preparing his rooms for him, washing him when he commanded her too, and acting the part of the perfect queen to the subjects. She quietly cleaned his bloody swords which he had commanded only be cleaned by her, though Farah could not imagine why. Perhaps it amused him, or made him feel more important, to have his 'loving wife' tend to his swords while he vividly described and no doubted exaggerated how he killed every unlucky Persian whose blood wound up on the hilt.

Being defiant would accomplish nothing. She decided this within the first week of their marriage, if you could call it that. Besides, she hardly had it in her to be defiant anymore; she seemed to have lost all will to do anything in front of her husband. Thankfully he was at war now and she did not have to see him often. She only hoped he would die and then she could pick her own suitor or even rule herself since he had no heir yet. Amar seemed to fear his own death too, for he was obsessed with having an heir, something he never ceased to remind Farah of. None had come yet, though not for Amar's lack of trying. She could sense him getting frustrated with her, and soon he would get a concubine to have a child with him. This did not bother Farah in the least, it would get him to leave her alone. When she was younger Farah's nurse had mentioned that sometimes if the mother does not want a child than it is harder to conceive. Farah sometimes wondered whether this was the case but found that she was not against having a child, she was just against having a child with Amar. A child would give her something to do, something to look forward to, but knowing Amar he would ship his child off to be raised by someone else and she would never see it. It would be just like him to take something she loved away.

"Your Highness!"

Farah spun around quickly, her foot knocking over a dish of oils. An extremely frantic maid stood in the doorway to the baths, her eyes wide like an animal caught in a trap.

"Yes? What is it?"

"The Persians are in the palace."

Farah's eyes grew wide and her breath grew shallow. The heavy air grew harder to breathe. "Where are the guards?"

"I don't know, your Highness, no one can seem to find them. Neela thinks they might have been called away."

"Called away by whom?"

"She thinks the Maharajah."

Farah cursed her husband to death as she stepped out of the pool of water, throwing a robe around her. "Very well then. Gather everyone left in the palace and hide in the tombs. Lock the doors."

"What about you?"

"I will go greet the Persians."

"But my lady," she said aghast, "You'll be killed."

"I can fight well enough. I might be able to take some out. And even if not, someone has to meet with them. This is a war. There is no time for hiding. Perhaps I can convince them."

But Farah was not entirely sure of herself. But she did know that she would not hide.

"Alright Your Highness, may luck be with you."

"And with all of you as well," Farah said strongly, "Now hurry."

The frightened maid rushed out of the room. Farah could hear her footsteps echoing through the hallways.

Sighing, Farah dabbed a little oil behind her ears and left for the main hall, where the Persians would undoubtedly be waiting for her. If they were not waiting, she would definitely meet some on the way.

They weren't waiting for her.

She heard a group of soldiers rummaging nosily farther up the hallway from her. She tried to remain calm and walked regally towards them, ready to open her mouth to perhaps negotiate with them, though she knew that wasn't possible. As she approached them her head started to throb horribly and she panted quietly in pain, not wanting to show them her weakness. Suddenly she was fighting them all of and they were chaining her together. She was apart of a caravan and they were bringing her back to Persia but first they would stop in the nearby kingdom of Azad…

No. That wasn't happening. The Persian soldiers saw her and smiled as they realized who she was. She wasn't in Azad but it felt so real, almost as if she had really been there before…

She rubbed her head carefully and regaining her ground she said as calm and as clear as she could under the circumstances, "I would like to be taken to your leader please."

The soldier, who was obviously the one in command in this group nodded formally. "No need Your Highness, we have orders to bring you to him already."

"Oh. Alright. Bring me then."

The soldier nodded. "Babak, bring her there."

The one called Babak nodded and escorted her there and he, obviously noble, was very kind to her. He did not say much to her but at least he did not leer at her. When they approached all the other soldiers they found stopped and let them through almost respectfully. Farah could not help but feel touched and thankful for this.

Finally Babak stopped in the Great Hall, where a few other soldiers were milling about, and two men in military uniform stood, their backs to Farah, conversing about something.

"Your Highness," Babak said formally, addressing one of the men, "I have brought you who you wished for."

One of the men, an older considerably experienced looking man turned and smiled, almost knowingly, while the other suddenly grew rigid before obviously trying to compose himself.

Slowly he turned to face her.


	6. Decisions and Understanding

**A/N: Thanks to all who read and a special thanks to lonelygamer, Inusgrl90, Sincerity and LisaB-md for their reviews. And to answer lonelygamer's question, I don't know if Arash is the name of a Persian singer, I just pulled the name off the site I use to get ethnic names. If Arash really is a Persian singer, than I hope he is okay with me using his name.**

They had brought her in. One of the men announced her and he tried to delay turning around for as long as he could. He did not want to see her. Rather, he did not want her to see him and realize it was he who had destroyed her home. He did not want to see that look of hate on her face when she realized who he was.

But he had to turn around.

He flinched inside as he watched her eyes widen and her mouth open from shock. He watched as fearful confusion flickered across her eyes, which were just as beautiful as he remembered them.

"What would you like me to do with her, my Prince?" asked the soldier who had brought her in.

"Where would you like her brought?" Arash asked quietly beside him.

"Nowhere," he said formally, "Leave her here for now. Get all of the soldiers here and lead them through out the rest of the palace. Afterwards return here. Don't hurt anyone." He hoped that this last phrase would warm her up to him even slightly.

"Yes, Your Highness," the soldier said obediently before turning around to leave. Arash spread the Prince's orders through out the rest of the hall and then led the men away.

They were alone.

He could not bear to look at her, not while she had that look on her face. All of the courage he had ever had in his life was gone and he turned abruptly to stare blankly at a tapestry on the wall.

He was destroying her home.

And she knew that. That was why she hated him now. He wondered what she had thought of him when he had killed her vizier for her and slid down the tree. Had she liked him then? Even if she had it was gone now. He was destroying everything she had ever known, destroying her home which was especially painful after the loss of her father.

But her husband had probably consoled her for that.

But he wanted to console her. He wanted her to know that he left her pain.

"I'm sorry about your father," he said. He was surprised when the words came out of his mouth but they were genuine, despite his surprise.

"Yes, well that is what happens," she said with edge in her voice, "And we are in the middle of a war."

He winced at her tone, knowing full well that he deserved it but wanting nothing more than to tell her that he had no choice. He wanted to hold her in his arms and tell her that he had no choice in any of this, that he wanted to leave her and her people alone.

But he didn't. He merely turned to face her, his eyes searching hers expectantly.

She turned away.

"It's a sad thing," he said softly, his voice carrying across the silent, angry air.

"What is?" she said angrily, "That you weren't the one to do it?"

"No," he said feebly, his heart throbbing wildly in pain. "Not that at all."

"Then what then?" she demanded, turning around to face him. Her eyes were glazed with angry tears.

"All of this. The war. The things that we are forced to do because of it."

"_Forced?_ You mean to say that you don't _want_ to destroy my palace?" She looked at him skeptically.

"Do you think that I would?"

"It's most sons' dream to be given such a responsibility and most men don't care what they destroy selfishly."

"Are you saying that I am happy to do this?"

"It is highly improbable that you aren't."

"Well I am not. Why would I tell you I was when I wasn't."

"To ease a conscience."

"Apparently you think that I wouldn't need to clear my conscience, considering you don't have very high standards for me."

"For someone who doesn't want to destroy a palace you are doing a pretty fine job of it."

"How so? I am barely touching anything."

"Barely! You just gave your men permission to take whatever they please!"

"I have to! I would be disappointing my father."

"Typical. You just want to please him."

"No! It would be worse than that, don't you understand! It would be treason!"

"I would have taken such a charge instead of causing so much harm."

"Harm to whom! I am not hurting anyone and if I don't go through the palace then _I _will be killed! I am sorry I am destroying your home, Farah, but I could be killed if I don't!"

The Prince found himself somewhere between anger and compassion, a combination of emotions he did not expect himself to feel. He was trying to recover from his emotions quickly, for the sudden silence that took over then was so passive that it seemed almost ridiculous to be overtaken by such almost violent emotions. She looked at him resignedly before turning away her eyes downcast.

"What will you do with anyone you might find?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing."

"But then they will tell what had happened to my husband when he arrives."

"They would not need to tell anything. The palace has been destroyed and considering this state of war it will be obvious who had done it."

"And…and what will you do with me?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I would be expected to take you with me but…" He faltered, not knowing what to say next and not knowing what he wanted to say.

"But what?"

"But I don't think you'd want that," he said finally, "And I've already done enough to you."

"But what do you want?"

"That is no concern in this decision."

"And what is?"

"What is the right thing to do and what am I expected to do."

"And what do you think is right?"

He looked up at him, his eyes uncertain, and she looked back at him with a sad resignation in her eyes.

"I…I don't know."

She looked at him sadly, slowly understanding the situation. She looked carefully at the floor. "Do what is expected of you," she said slowly, "It seems that there is no other choice."

"Prince," came a loud authoritative voice, which startled both of them, "The search of the palace is complete. Would you like us to search for the Maharajah's treasure vaults? I hear that there are many wonders hidden there."

"No!" The Prince said quickly. Farah and Arash, to whom the new voice belonged, looked at him curiously.

"I… don't think that would be necessary," he said with composure.

"Very well," Arash said, obviously restraining from reacting to the Prince's strange behavior, "What shall we do now?"

"Head back to camp."

"And what with the Maharajah's wife?"

The Prince glanced at Farah compassionately. Her eyes fell to the floor, but she nodded slowly, with sorrowful resignation.

"Take her with us," he said slowly. Arash nodded and gathered up the men. Two soldiers placed Farah's hands in chains and led her away. The Prince remained there, alone, for a few seconds, his mind milling over what he had just done. He was overjoyed that she was back with him, but sorry that it had to be done this way.


End file.
